


A Secret Shared...

by otherwiseestella



Series: The Things Q Likes [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Blowjobs, Bond has a wonderful time, Desperation, Diplomatic trouble with France, Dirty Talk, Entente Cordiale or thereabouts, Feelings, Fluff, France have very poor security systems..., M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Pasta, Porn with Feelings, Q has a wonderful time, Snark, Very very dirty, Watersports, Wetting, handjob, peeing, scotch, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwiseestella/pseuds/otherwiseestella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bond is wounded, Q is exasperated, Bond has been forcibly removed from Paris, Q insists on more alcohol than might be sensible, and secrets are shared.</p>
<p>Q has a dirty secret that he is quite happy keeping to himself, thank you. Bond has a way of sniffing out secrets, and the result is not at all what Q expected.</p>
<p>*Please don't read this if you don't like pee!*</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Secret Shared...

 

Q had Bond’s shirt lying in a crumpled heap on the floor before he realized that the wound was superficial, a long graze over his ribs. It would need butterfly stitches at worst.

 

‘Cracked?’ he ran an antiseptic wipe over the wound, ignoring Bond’s flinch.

 

‘All in working order.’

 

Q could feel Bond’s eyes tracking him as he lifted a gauze panel from the packet. He hoped his shower had been thorough enough, that his composure was more solid than it felt.

 

‘Not an unreasonable question,’ he murmured.

 

‘Which? The one you’ve just asked, or the one you’re holding on to?’

 

It made him smile, the back and forth, the fact that Bond, after that first day, treated him more or less like an equal.

 

‘Very well then, 007. What the fuck are you doing back from Paris and at my door?’

 

Bond smirked at him then, caught his eye as he bent over to apply the thin bandage. ‘Le gouvernement français et j'ai eu une petite dispute.’

 

James had flawless French – Q had heard him often enough on comms, but it didn’t stop a little shiver of satisfaction as he heard the words trip over his tongue, accent pleasant and unmarked.

 

‘Ah. C'était l'argument sur la politique économique?’ Q grinned, ‘ou séduire les responsables gouvernementaux?’ He finished the gauze, fingers ghosting over Bond’s skin for absolutely no longer than necessary, and turned to the sink to wash his hands.

 

‘Neither.  Some fucker’s hand slipped in the loading bay, one of our agents ended up with two broken arms. I upheld our end of the _entente cordiale_ , and they kindly saw me off the premises.’

 

Q pursed his lips. ‘Forty eight hours.’

 

‘Longer, surely?’

 

‘Hardly,’ Q packed the first aid kit away and washed his hands, ‘the  _Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure_ haven’t been out for your head before? Bloody shoddy security, that lot. ’

 

‘I would hate to impose.’

 

At that, Q grinned, glancing over his shoulder and letting his gaze linger momentarily on the agent’s chest.

 

‘For a trained assassin, you’re a terrible liar.’

 

Then, just as he was reaching into the cupboard over the sink, his back prickled with heat. Bond was behind him, had closed the gap between the sink and the bath and was right there, mere millimeters away. Q was trapped, on tiptoe, pelvis hard up against the sink and – _oh for fuck’s sake, we are absolutely not about to get an erection, thanks_ – he was certain that from where he was standing, Bond could actually see his ears pinking.

 

‘Alec is on mission, and M actually used a cattle prod last time, if you can believe it. I mean it. You don’t often have guests.’

 

The last part wasn’t a question.

 

Just as Q was about to ease back, to thank Bond, to suggest supper and some surveillance identification, something occurred to him.

 

 It took every ounce of self-control not to swear under his breath, not to give anything away. The spare bedroom. Bond couldn’t sleep in there, with the evidence of his earlier naughtiness all over the carpet. And the washing machine – Bond couldn’t go into the kitchen, either. What if he could tell just by glancing round the flat? _Bugger_. There was a reason Q hated unexpected guests. They caused no end of trouble.

 

There was only one thing for it. ‘Call out for supper, would you? The French are unlikely to be operating surveillance via takeaway phone lines. And a bottle of scotch.’

 

‘Something on your mind, Quartermaster?’

 

‘Yes, 007. I think we ought to get drunk.’

 

* * *

 

 

Bond’s persuasive powers stretched to procuring a bottle of very good scotch, a bottle of unreasonably poor rum, and pasta. Q sat cross-legged as they ate on the sofa, his laptop balanced on the arm, in silence that was companionable enough. 

 

‘Are you staring at my legs?’ Q asked, round a mouthful of pasta, whilst furiously attempting to – ah! There it was. He was into the French security network. It was inconceivable that they’d still be using revolutionary heroes as the security passwords – they’d been doing that when he was fourteen – yet there it was, _Saint17Just67_. Idiots. They managed to make hacking national security surveillance sites dull.

 

‘Your trousers, not your legs. Flannel?’

 

‘Boarding school habits. You’d know - probably still wear briefs with a name tag.’

 

God, they were making it too easy for him. Had they even bothered encrypting the – 

 

‘ _Oh, bugger_.’

 

‘What?’ Bond’s voice was sharp, mission-alert.

 

‘Encryption – some lovely little trick from – oh probably bloody Enomis, she always ends up selling to the Europeans – look, pour me a drink, would you?’

 

Q looked away from his screen, raked his fingers through his hair. The agent had his gaze fixed on Q’s face as if searching for something, and his eyes were an outrageous shade of blue. Not looking away, he reached over, uncorked the scotch, and poured two large measures.

 

‘When was the last time you had a holiday?’ He handed a tumbler to Q.

 

The Quartermaster snorted, wondering if this was the beginning of another round of insults, ‘there was a particularly calming six months in prison, but that was years ago.’

 

There was a pause, curiously thick and syrupy.

 

‘Oh, god. You’re going to ask me to play hooky tomorrow to get this sorted, aren’t you?’

 

‘Possibly,’ Bond took a long drink, ‘but I was actually going to suggest you take the day off to purchase flannels that don’t have a rip the size of Ireland. I can see your bollocks, Quartermaster.’

 

Q didn’t need to look down. Bond was right, of course. These were the ripped ones that he only wore when he was in the house alone. Christ. He hated agents. Houseguests. Fucking French government security. He could actually feel his face redden, take on a heat he thought years of practice had largely suppressed. He should be so lucky.

 

He stood, finished his whiskey in one long swallow, and turned to go to the bedroom. Bond chuckled quietly behind him, as if it wasn’t enough that he was in his living room, sprawled out over his sofa as if he owned it, teasing him as if they were old friends.

 

The only other clean bottoms were – oh, no, let it not be – his yoga trousers. They were tight over his buttocks, clung over his thighs and then loosened. He didn’t really want his arse to be more explicitly on show than usual, but there it was. He sighed, slipped them on, and was about to go back through when he heard the click of a door. The spare room door. The spare room door where –

 

He stiffened, absolutely still until the en-suite flush sounded, then the taps. Then the noise of the agent moving back through to the living room, obviously relaxed enough to let his footsteps sound out.

 

The creak of the sofa, the twist of the whiskey cap. The noises weren’t markedly different - he wasn’t calling a cab, wasn’t dobbing him in to M as a pervert – although if he was about to leave in disgust, he’d hardly make it audible.

 

Head up, remembering that this was unlikely to be as bad as the time that, high as a kite, he’d been arrested in the sixth form common room for hacking into the Treasury accounts, he walked back into the living room. Bond looked over his shoulder at him. He was – smirking, almost, a half-pretty smile Q hadn’t seen before.

 

‘Cat?’ Bond asked.

 

There was a beat, a second when Q could have salvaged the situation.

‘Allergic,’ he finally answered, and crossed the back of the sofa to sit by his computer. As he walked past Bond, the agent’s hand snuck out and round his waist, effectively pinning him. Before he had a chance to do more than squawk in surprise Bond was looking up at him, blue eyes sparkling.

 

‘Pervert, then,’ he said, and pulled Q in, until he was pressed flush against the sofa back.

 

 Q’s heart was threatening to jump out of his chest. He could feel sweat prickling his brow. This was absolutely not how it was supposed to go. He’d imagined disgust, perhaps, the curl of the agent’s lip against the horridness of it. He had not anticipated a hand round him, a voice laced with intoxicating possibility.

 

‘I’m not a well-groomed female assassin, Bond,’ he said, aiming for detached scorn and landing somewhere near virgin schoolboy.

 

When he answered, Bond’s voice was little more than a salacious rumble: ‘as far as I can see, Quartermaster, you’re a gorgeous, filthy boy who’s spent the evening making eyes at me.’

 

It would have been the perfect moment to regain some dignity, albeit at the expense of a nice shag he didn’t even have to leave the house for, with an agent who made his toes curl and his cock perk up. There was really very little incentive for him to scratch back the upper hand. And he felt as if his blood was singing. He dared himself to meet Bond’s eyes, to see if there was the slightest touch of scorn, if he was being teased again.

 

Just heat, just ice blue melting into the black of blown pupils.

 

‘But you’ – he was cut off as Bond stood up, briefly letting him go, and then pulling him round until they were standing together – Bond in his suit, Q in his ridiculous loungewear. He willed himself not to lean in, not to bury his head in the crook of Bond’s neck, not to count his heartbeats.

 

He lifted Q’s chin until their eyes met, ‘I’m not inclined to have a conversation about this. Either you –‘

 

Q smiled, probably ridiculous in his glasses and bare feet, and rolled onto his tiptoes so that his mouth brushed against Bond’s. Before it could become a kiss he raised his head, letting his lips graze over the agent’s ear:

 

‘Oh, 007,’ he breathed, hot and slow, close to silent, ‘I thought you might have realized by now just how much I relish long, difficult conversations.’

 

And he smiled against the strong, warm line of Bond’s jaw when he swore under his breath, and pulled him into the bedroom.

 

                       

* * * 

 

They were lying in Q’s bed. Both clothed, although Q noticed that Bond had at some point shed the holster along with his suit jacket. Bond had his hand in the Quartermaster’s hair, was running his fingers through it and tugging at intervals. They’d been through most of it – what he liked, what he didn’t, and then -

 

‘Names?’

 

The question, low and intimate, made Q wriggle, press up against Bond again. That, and the first twinges of a full bladder made him wriggle.

 

‘I like being called _naughty_ ,’ he managed, before hiding his face again. The agent hummed in his throat and moved one hand down to cup Q’s dick through his trousers, rubbing through the material once, twice, then withdrawing just as Q’s hips began to cant up to the touch.

 

‘Go on,’ his voice was subsonic, treacle.

 

‘Slut, and boy, and little, demeaning words – I – _Christ_ , Bond, I’ve never told anyone this and’ –

 

‘And now you’re telling me, and feel how hard you’re getting? You like this, telling someone your secrets, letting someone else take the control away.’

 

Q smiled shyly, rubbing himself more desperately against Bond’s thigh. He snaked his hand across Bond’s shirt and down to his belt, his waistband, still unsure quite what the dynamics were beyond straightforward desire, not sure whether he was quite allowed to –

 

‘Bond, I…’ he faltered, fingers feather-light over the belt buckle.

 

And then Bond rolled them, shifting their positions so that Q was pinned to the bed underneath him. The agent’s hips straddled his as he raked his fingers hard through Q’s tangled hair, pulling him up until their lips finally touched.

 

Bond kissed even better than he did in Q’s fantasies. His kisses were demanding, hot and hard, and they made it very clear indeed who was in control. Q yielded with a little moan of pleasure as Bond bit at his bottom lip then licked into his mouth as if to claim it. These weren’t kisses to parry and return: they were kisses to survive, to _submit to_. _Jesus_ , Bond knew exactly what he was doing and Q arched into the space between their bodies, pressing his feet down against the bed until their crotches met and he felt the hardness in between Bond’s legs. He wanted, _God_ , he wanted, but what?

 

And then Bond’s mouth was pressed by his hear as they rutted, whispering dirty snatches which were half-instruction, half the running-off of a distracted mind: _‘oh, you dirty little boy, hard for me, hard for what we’re going to do – wanted you – months in Q branch – had no idea you were so perfect, so filthy_. _Want to see you, Q, fuck, I want to see you go.’_

Q pulled back then. His hair was a mess, his breathing heaving, his eyes wide with lust and nerves. ‘I want to. I need…’ he whispered, too shy to finish the sentence.

 

‘What do you need, hmm?’ Bond ran his short nails, hard, down the nape of his neck, forcing out a whimper. Q shut his eyes tight against the electric sensation.

 

‘To – to – oh James, oh God, James, I need to – to – piss.’

 

The agent dragged Q up, a messy bundle of limbs, manhandled him through to the spare room and, slamming the door behind them, pushed him up against it.

 

Q rubbed his face against Bond’s neck as if trying to hide. He was desperate, the throb of his bladder insistent now, pulsing halfway between discomfort and arousal.

 

Bond murmured to him, voice low and smug: ‘of course you’ve got a whole room for pissing in, you little whore.  Do you think about it at work, coming in here and _wetting yourself_ like the dirty little boy you are?’

 

Q moaned. It might have been an answer, it might not. At that moment, as he rolled his hips together with Bond’s, the heat and prickling desperation grew too much to bear. James probably wanted him to hold it, to wait until he said so but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t wait a second longer before…

 

With a sob, more mortified and aroused and more undone than he had ever been in his life, he began to piss himself.

 

‘I’m – the – oh, James, please, I’m sorry – I’m - Oh, _oh fuck_.’

 

He shook as the first hot spurts filled his underwear, blossoming out across the front of his yoga pants. Bond had him pinned hard against the door and canted his hips toward him as the first drops spattered audibly against the carpet. The wetness spread over Q’s crotch and…

 

‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Letting it out, letting yourself go everywhere. Good, dirty boy.’

 

Q moaned against him, rubbing his crotch against Bond’s as hard as he could when another spurt escaped and ran down his legs. It felt so good, almost overwhelming. His pulse was thumping, legs wet, crotch soaked, and he could barely catch his breath for the thrill of it.

 

He held his legs together, stopping the flow for a second, gathered all his courage and said quietly, against Bond’s ear: ‘very naughty though, to go all over your nice trousers.’

 

When Bond smiled, it was all teeth, and the surge of adrenalin he felt threatened to knock Q sideways. The agent’s pupils were blown, just the slightest rim of blue left around them, and when he pulled Q toward the bed, Q’s legs shook. He had his hand clamped over his wet crotch, trying to keep the rest of his pee from coming out, reveling in the tight feeling of desperation.

 

Bond sat on the edge of the bed, his trousers glistening with Q’s piss. He looked at Q, wriggling and soaked, eyes cast down, breathing hard.

 

‘You did this, didn’t you? Dirty fucker.  And you know what happens when boys spoil other people’s property. They get punished.’

 

Q shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling the pressure against his bladder and the butterflies in his stomach: ‘no, please, not yet, I still have to…’

 

‘You’ll just have to hold like a big boy then, won’t you, until I’m finished,’ Bond’s voice was stern.

 

He bent Q over his knee as if he weighed nothing, so that his face was pressed into the blankets, then he roughly pulled down Q’s briefs, exposing his bottom.

 

‘Ten,’ he said, voice wrecked, and Q simply couldn’t believe that _this_ , this terrible perversion, was making Bond as horny as he was. He whimpered, feeling exposed and scared and still so desperate to piss, as the first spank hit him square across the bottom.

 

Bond wasn’t holding back. The smack stung, made him wince and bite his lip and wriggle, trying to get away.

 

The wriggling forced his bladder harder against Bond’s thigh, rubbing their crotches together, and for the second time, Q found that he couldn’t hold it.

 

Suddenly going still, he screwed his eyes up and, just as the second smack made him cry out, he started to piss himself again.

 

‘I’m pissing Oh, fuck, I can’t hold it,’ he mumbled into the duvet. It felt so, so good, feeling his pee forced out of him in spurts by the force of the smacks, directly into Bond’s crotch.

 

Bond must have felt it. The piss pooled between them, soaking Bond’s thighs. But he didn’t stop. The smacks were hard, rained down fast, and he grunted as his hand made contact with Q’s damp bottom.

 

They had reached ten. Q, mortified beyond belief, kept peeing, a hot little stream that made him gasp.

 

He was helped up to standing, and then Bond looked him up and down.

 

‘ _Fuck_. Q, you’re soaked. You gorgeous, naughty, beautiful boy. _Christ_. Have you let it all out?’

 

Q shook his head. He still had a little bit left and he wasn’t sure if he could hold it much longer even if Bond asked him to.

 

‘Come and sit on my lap then, pet, and let’s have you finish for me.’ Q could hardly believe the warm, gravelly tone, the genuine fondness on Bond’s face and the erection in his trousers. They sat on the bed and Bond ran his warm hands over Q’s crotch, settling him so that he was straddled over Bond’s legs.

 

‘Go on, dirty boy, push your piss out for me.’

 

That was all it took. Q let out a broken moan and kissed Bond, licking at his lips and whimpering as he let the last of his pee, feeling it hiss out through his briefs and into Bond’s. He could feel his cock jumping as the liquid hit, and hear the way Bond’s breath caught. A firm hand stroked him through it, caressing the back of his neck and ruffling his hair.

 

With a shaky breath he looked up at Bond, uncertain. He could feel his body tense, waiting for the spell to break, waiting for remonstrance or disgust.

 

Instead, Bond worked his hand down, slipping his fingers under Q’s waistband and teasing them along his shaft. Bucking and letting out a little mewl, Q pushed against the gentle pressure, _wanted wanted wanted_.

 

‘Please, James.’

 

‘Mmm?’ The agent kept the pressure up, teasing round Q’s head and fluttering his fingertips over the most sensitive parts. ‘You want to make even more mess in your pants, do you?’

 

‘Yes, oh, James, please, now. I’m…’ He screwed his eyes shut as Bond stopped teasing and gripped him firmly.

 

‘Close, aren’t you, Q?’ His voice was deep and low and _filthy_ in Q’s ears, and his grip was tight and hot. He worked him in short, firm strokes, thumb flicking out over his slit. Q could feel how much he was leaking, how sticky Bond’s hand was getting.

 

‘Come on, pet, come for me, make a mess.’

 

And that was it.

 

Q’s breath was just a rough pant, eyes wide and mouth open, and then suddenly, as Bond’s clever hand twisted deliciously. He cried out, hands grabbing at Bond’s shoulders to steady himself, and came so hard he saw stars. It felt as if his blood was singing, and the pulses of cum over Bond’s hand wouldn’t stop, didn’t slow.

 

The world stopped. It took Q what felt like hours to open his eyes, to think _James_ – to look down and see James’ beautiful cock, the agent working himself, one arm slung round Q to keep him secure on his lap. He was grunting, deep noises of concentration that made Q’s cock twitch almost painfully.

 

He wriggled out of James’ grasp and slid to his knees, hitting the bedroom floor with rather less dignity than he might like.

 

‘You don’t have to…’ Bond’ voice was quiet, amused. His hand didn’t stop moving until Q looked up and grinned, cat-like.

 

‘I’d rather like to look after your equipment, 007. It is my job.’  The tease in his tone made Bond laugh and his hand found the back of Q’s head as he leant in towards his soaked crotch.

 

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that here he was, tongue flicking over Bond’s frenulum, surrounded by the evidence of his own terrible naughtiness. He could feel his cock trying to harden, could feel the thrum of arousal in his blood as he wet Bond’s cock thoroughly before slipping it into his mouth as far as it would go. Bond’s skin smelt of salt, musk, soft leather where his belt had sat. Q wondered if it was the most wonderful smell he’d ever encountered.

 

It was such a pretty cock, thick and proud. He couldn’t quite swallow him down, but he wanted to, wanted to open his throat and press his nose against Bond’s skin. It felt wonderful, perfect, on his knees in front of Bond, in soiled trousers and with his mind finally calm.

 

He hummed around Bond’s cock, sucking and licking indulgently, hollowing out his cheeks. Above him, Bond’s hand was threaded gently through his hair, rubbing his scalp and tangling in his hair.

 

‘Q, pet…’ That must be the warning. Q smiled to hear the strain in Bond’s voice, the shortness of his breath. He wanted it so badly, to feel Bond let go, to have him spend in his mouth. Bond’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling at the curls.

 

‘Fuck.’

 

Bond was quiet, the expletive barely breaking the silence. His cock twitched in Q’s mouth, hot liquid hitting the back of his mouth, salty and perfect. He worked his tongue against the head, trying to swallow it all, reveling in the taste until Bond guided his head away gently, leant down and kissed him lazily, seeking out the traces of himself in Q’s mouth.

 

They slumped together for a second, Bond’s slightly accelerated heart rate the only evidence of his recent activity. Bloody spies and their lack of tells. Other than the stain on his crotch, he looked perfectly ready to go out to dinner.

 

Q broke the silence. ‘We should…’

 

‘Mmm.’ Bond looked at him, but his blue eyes were veiled.

 

Ah. He wanted to leave, then. Q understood the nuances, was no stranger to the disgust and remorse that sometimes swiftly followed, that had made him slip out of back doors and once shin down a drainpipe in the grey morning.

 

‘Go first, I don’t mind – I can call you a registered driver?’

 

Bond fixed his eyes on him. Q wished he wouldn’t.

 

But then he was stepping over to him, crouching down to where he was still sitting on the floor.

 

‘If you’d like, Quartermaster. But if it were up to me, I’d rather like to shower and then take you to bed with the rest of the Scotch.’

 

Q must have looked entirely blindsided. He had expected Bond to be fascinated by the novelty, repulsed by the actuality of alternative desire. But here he was, calm in the face of the unexpected, kind after the fact, and –

 

Bond kissed him, lips just catching on the side of his mouth.

 

‘I can hear you thinking.’

 

‘Your plan sounds highly satisfactory. Lead on, MacDuff.’

 

‘Not the most apt quotation for this situation, possibly.’

 

‘Possibly, not, but then I’ve just had my brains shagged out.’

 

Bond laughed and switched on the shower.

 

‘Come on then, Quartermaster. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.’

 

‘Christ. Give me a second. Refraction period.’

 

‘I don’t think Shakespeare meant it as a euphemism.’

 

‘Mmm,’ Q breathed out softly, absolutely exhausted and warm in the steam. ‘Maybe he did.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! One more part, I think.


End file.
